


Yeah?

by theSeventhStranger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bedroom Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post S3, Post TAB, Smut, Top John Watson, Well First Time Sort Of, just a little something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSeventhStranger/pseuds/theSeventhStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The first time John enters Sherlock, he tries to be so very gentle; acutely aware of Sherlock’s inexperience.<br/>Right before, he asks one more time, to make absolutely sure. </p><p>”Yeah?” he mumbles into Sherlock’s mouth.</p><p>”Yes,” comes the immediate reply, barely a whisper; a shaky exhale of warm air against John’s lips.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yeah?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [latchkeykid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/latchkeykid/gifts), [KezialovesShandJohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KezialovesShandJohn/gifts), [Alihahdnaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alihahdnaid/gifts), [YellowMiche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMiche/gifts).



> Just a little PWP, that's all. What can I say, I had so much work to do. So of course, I did the only sensible thing and procrastinated by writing 1500 words of smut instead. Gifting it to some of my lovely friends out there. Happy weekend guys.

The first time John enters Sherlock, he tries to be so very gentle; acutely aware of Sherlock’s inexperience. Right before, he asks one more time, to make absolutely sure. 

”Yeah?” he mumbles into Sherlock’s mouth. John is supporting his weight on his right arm, while holding himself in his left hand. He's slick with lube and precome, and already brushing against Sherlock’s carefully prepared ring of muscles.

”Yes,” comes the immediate reply, barely a whisper; a shaky exhale of warm air against John’s lips.

He pushes forward, then, and gasps as he is suddenly surrounded with heat and tightness. Sherlock is breathing rapidly; his mouth open, his eyes wide, his pupils blown. John is holding still, waiting, giving Sherlock time to process the new sensation.

Some long seconds later, John attempts to move. With the slightest flexing of his hips, he withdraws a tiny bit, then pushes in again, the slide tight but slick.

”Wait!” Sherlock speaks up, worry in his eyes, small beads of sweat making his pale skin shine in the dimmed light of the bedroom. ”Wait, it feels like I’m going to-”  
The red fluster on Sherlock’s cheeks intensifies. 

John brings up a hand to swipe away a stray lock of hair from Sherlock’s forehead, strokes his ear, his neck. ”Yeah I know,” he says. ”But you won’t. It’s just the way it feels at first, I promise.”

”Are you sure?” A crease has formed between Sherlock’s brows, concern in his eyes still. ”Because it absolutely feels like-” his voice trickles off for a second, ”it really does, and that would be, er, quite undignified, frankly, and-”

John can’t help but smile a little at this, bowing his head down to place a gentle kiss on that lovely mouth. ”Trust me,” he says, briefly kissing Sherlock’s lower lip again, ”I’m a doctor.” 

And Sherlock laughs, a soundless breathy laugh, and John chooses that exact moment to give another thrust, causing Sherlock’s laugh to turn into a gasp. John repeats the motion, again, and then again, and sees Sherlock’s apprehension slip away, being replaced by a different kind of tension.

”Ah!” Sherlock moans on the next push in, and that is enough to send a shiver down John’s spine. It’s really happening. It’s really, really happening, and John can hardly believe it.

Sherlock puts a hand behind John’s neck and drags him down into a kiss, messier this time, tongue meeting tongue, teeth scraping and gently biting. 

John’s tight self control is beginning to slip a bit, now. He rams his tongue hard into Sherlock’s mouth, his hand gripping the wet curls at the back of his head, sliding his rock hard dick almost all the way out, and then pushing it hard into Sherlock’s warm body again.

He hears himself grunt, primal instincts taking over as the heat between them keeps rising.

”Yeah?” John says again, but this time it’s not so much of a question. 

”Yes,” Sherlock replies in a low, hoarse voice, and he has begun to move his hips, meeting each thrust, making it deeper.

”Yeah,” John whispers insistently. ”That’s it, love, that’s it.”

”Yes, yes-”

Sherlock is holding his head raised up from the pillow, staring down between them, his hands in a steady grip on John’s upper arms.

John’s biceps are starting to tremble with exhaustion, and he sits up a bit, shifting his weight onto his knees. With his long arms, Sherlock can reach John’s hips, and he rests them there, right on top of the sharp protrusion of his hip bones, following through John’s movements. Then, without any prompting, Sherlock shifts to place a heavy leg on top of John’s good shoulder. John leans forward a little bit, and on the next thrust, he and Sherlock both moan loudly as John penetrates Sherlock even deeper.

Sherlock is getting hard again, wet glans protruding through retracted foreskin. Encouraged by this sight, John turns up his pace just a little bit. 

”Ah,” Sherlock moans again, loud, too loud probably, someone could hear, but what does it matter. 

”Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” John teases, and Sherlock just nods.

”You’re doing so well,” John’s voice is raspy and breathy. ”You’re taking my dick so beautifully, feels so good-” He revels in the sounds Sherlock is making; a waxing and waning, moans of arousal and whimpers of needy submission. 

John slides his hand down, slowly, all the way from Sherlock’s neck, brushing over his right nipple, then further down, teasing for a moment with his hand held still right above, in the soft hair there, before finally placing a tight fist around Sherlock’s cock.

”God,” Sherlock gasps as John begins to stroke him, matching the pace of his thrusts. ”God, John, God-”

Sherlock’s voice, the hot hardness of his dick in John’s hand; the sight of him, disheveled and sweaty, naked and turned on below him; it takes John’s arousal to another level. His body is taking command, brain on autopilot, the only thing that exists now is this very moment. 

John leans over Sherlock again, but only so much that he can keep stroking him, twisting his hand, thumb sliding over the wet slit in the center.

”Fuck, you feel amazing,” John manages to get out, and through his haze he notices how Sherlock immediately responds to this, gripping him tighter, and John continues.

”You’re so beautiful, so perfect, God, your body-” 

”John,” Sherlock says, his voice strained. He is staring into John’s eyes with a look that John has never seen on him before. ”Fuck me, fuck me, I need it, I need you-” 

Sherlock’s words are flowing out in a rapid stream and to John, they are like water on burning oil, sending flames of overwhelming desire through his body. He puts more force behind each thrust, wants it harder, faster.

”John,” Sherlock stutters out, ”John, I think I’m going to-”

And in awe and amazement, John watches as Sherlock starts to come; semen shooting out between them, scattering across Sherlock’s almost hair free chest and belly. 

Sherlock is completely quiet as he comes, his eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, hard puffs of air through his nose the only sound he makes. John stops thrusting, mesmerized by the sight. He’s still inside Sherlock, but not moving, only concentrating now on stroking Sherlock through his orgasm, trying to memorize every little detail of what he looks like.

He feels the tension rapidly dissipating from Sherlock’s body, turning it soft and pliant. Sherlock’s chest is heaving, his eyes are half closed, he seems to be still caught up in the twilight state after climax.

But John is still in that wound up place, only now even more so, he needs to come and he needs it right this fucking second. He pulls out, a bit faster than he should have, probably, and Sherlock opens his eyes but does not show any signs of pain. John straightens up a bit, sits back onto his knees again. He takes his aching dick in his left hand and starts stroking, setting a furious, desperate pace. Sherlock is watching him with wide eyes.

It doesn’t take much, and within seconds, John feels the first wave of orgasm approaching. ”Fuck, Sherlock, oh, fuck,” he hears himself repeating, and Sherlock is chanting, ”John, yes, John, oh-”

John’s gaze lingers on Sherlock’s mouth, on those parted, swollen lips, and a mental image pops up in John’s head. It’s a vivid memory of what it had looked like, on a night not too long ago, when Sherlock had sucked him off and then encouraged him to come over his open mouth, over his waiting, obscenely stretched out tongue, his eyes locked in contact with John’s. 

And that is the image that finally does him in. John is tipping over, he’s coming, spurts of hot liquid between them, painting Sherlock’s naked torso and mixing with the wet mess already there. 

John’s entire body is trembling. He flops down heavily next to Sherlock, wraps his arm around him, pulls him close. It’s wet and sticky and already a bit cold, and John thinks that nothing in this world could be more perfect. This is a moment of bliss, of love, of gratefulness and happiness.

After catching his breath, John uses his discarded t-shirt to wipe them sufficiently dry, and Sherlock snuggles up tightly against him. This is how they have been sleeping, ever since that day a couple of weeks ago when they had been sitting in a town car together, and Sherlock had been so brave, and John had grabbed his hand, and everything had changed. 

Sherlock looks at him and smiles happily, and John smiles back, places lots and lots of small kisses over his hair, forehead, lips. Within minutes, Sherlock falls asleep, a long bony leg tangled possessively around John’s.

John has an arm wrapped around Sherlock, and is gently running his hand in small circles wherever he can reach. When John drifts into sleep a short moment later, his fingers are still nestled in the soft, damp curls on the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

They haven’t talked about what has just happened, but then again, neither of them is the talking type and the review can wait.


End file.
